


Ghosts in my Home

by GloriaVictoria



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghost Drifting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Operation Pitfall (Pacific Rim), Reunion Sex, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 08:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15703989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: After the War, Hermann Gottlieb buys a house.Hermann and Newton part ways after Operation Pitfall with a lot of things left unsaid. Expect war trauma, pithy metaphors, unnecessarily detailed descriptions of home life, and sex. Obviously.





	Ghosts in my Home

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs about six months after the ending of PR1. Uprising isn't happening.

After the War, Hermann Gottlieb buys a house: nothing pretentious or affectatious, nothing too large for a single man such as himself. He buys a three-bedroom, two-bathroom home . He buys it because he can drive easily from it to his new place of employment: Stony Brook University, a fine school with a brilliant aeronautics program and, to his great pleasure, very few distractions. It boasts a view of the sea, and sits far enough away from civilization that on clear nights, the stars explode with light and color, and he can trace the arms of the Milky Way with his fingers like a lover. 

He buys a three-bedroom home because, well, he doesn't know where life will take him next. For the first thirty-five years of his life, his path carved itself out for him: first school, then career, then the War. Now, he feels as if a thousand different destinations, a thousand different lives, stretch out before him. He buys it because perhaps he'll get married someday; perhaps his family shall visit, perhaps he shall adopt a child -- dozens of “perhapses”, none of which Hermann believes will ever come to pass. Nevertheless, he plans for them, and secretly hopes for them. 

He has few belongings when he finally moves into his house. He ordered furnishings weeks before, and when he arrived he found them already delivered, assembled and placed quite neatly in their appropriate rooms. His taxi driver graciously helps him carry in his clothes and the rest of his things. None of the Shatterdomes he’d resided in had allowed much space for extraneous stuff, and as such Hermann had only brought things he truly valued: favorite books, his diplomas, a few knick-knacks picked up from his journeys around the world, hopping from base to base. He’s grateful for this now; it saves him a great deal of time unpacking, though he finds his home unsettling in its emptiness. 

The house sits little more than a quarter mile from the edge of the ocean, and while the water doesn’t suit for swimming, Hermann appreciates its proximity. The water feels different somehow, safer and cleaner. It helps that he needn’t fear enormous beasts rising from its depths, as he had the Pacific; no bittersweet memories wash up on these shores. Once he squares away his clothes and essential things, he changes shoes and heads to the sea for a walk. The breeze rustles his shirt, brushes his hair away from his forehead like the gentle fingers of a mother. He feels calm and contented, yet distinctly alone.

The next few days roll on, each filled with paperwork, registrations and purchases of insurance, license renewals -- absolutely normal things that for the life of him Hermann cannot wrap his brain around. They seem so dull and superfluous compared to the very real challenges they'd faced during the war. Lots of standing in queues, sitting in front of desks, signing on dotted lines… Ironically, each of these tasks tax him in a way that the War had not, perhaps because of the sheer mindlessness of it all. 

Sometimes, he thinks he almost misses it. The nightmares assure him that he's wrong. He dreams of the years living in muted terror, of young men and women throwing themselves at the apocalypse again and again, only to have it come surging back at them harder than ever, like a hungry tidal wave. He dreams of how he pushed his mind and body to their limits, dreams that his leg gives out and he falls backward from his ladder, shattering his skull on the concrete floor. He dreams of Newton Geiszler convulsing in his arms, a mess of blood, sweat and tears. He dreams that Newton's fluttering heart stops and his eyes grow dark. From this dream, he staggers to the bathroom and vomits, panting and sobbing. Each time, it feels as if he's died too.

* * *

 

He begins teaching at Stony Brook two weeks after his move, and things fall into a comfortable, if not exciting, routine. Each morning, he rises and takes tea with his breakfast, usually oatmeal or muesli. He showers, brushes hair and teeth, dresses, and packs his lunch. He navigates the society of his fellow academics, the crowds of bustling students. He teaches his classes with the efficiency and poise of an automaton, and when the day is through he retreats to his office, closes the door and eases into his chair. Here, he can count on quiet and solitude, something desperately wanted after a day of answering questions, talking and talking to students who only barely listen, smiling thinly at his new colleagues. 

He often feels like a curiosity here; everyone knows the role he played in the War, and everyone wants to know more. One afternoon, as he sits in the cafeteria drinking his tea, a fellow professor he has only seen in passing takes the chair across from him. He’s a younger man, perhaps twenty-seven or eight, but to Hermann he seems like a child -- his bright eyes do not carry the weight in them that his had at this age; his smile curls too easily across his face. 

“Good morning, Dr. Gottlieb.” He offers his hand. “I’m Samuel MacAllister. I chair the new Planar Xenobiology department.” 

“Do you?” Hermann pulls his lips into something of a smile, though he’s sure it looks more like a grimace. He takes MacAllister’s hand and shakes it. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve been hoping to speak with you ever since I heard you were joining faculty. Everyone’s dying to meet you.” He runs a hand through his fluffy honey-blond hair, and Hermann swallows hard, feels his throat go dry.. 

“Oh? I can’t imagine why, I'm terribly dull.” He replies, staring into his tea to avoid the large green eyes regarding him with an admiration he does not want to acknowledge. 

“You’re really too modest. Everyone knows the role your work played in the War, even if they gave the Rangers all the credit. You and Dr. Geiszler…” At this moment, MacAllister’s voice fades away, low and muffled as if speaking to him from beneath the sea. He hates this. He wants to throw himself out the window and run, but instead he forces himself to maintain his smile, a task growing increasingly difficult.

“You must forgive me, Dr. MacAllister. I really must -- must get home. I’ve only just moved in, and there’s so much to do.” 

“Oh, of course! I’m so sorry, Dr. Gottlieb.” Hermann begins to rise, and MacAllister looks as if he’s chewing on something difficult. “Can I just ask you… one question?” Hermann clenches his jaw.

“Just one, I suppose.” He answers, regretting his impulse to sate this man’s foolish hero worship. 

“How did you do it?” 

Hermann resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I  _ did _ publish an entire dossier regarding my Breach probability formulas, Dr. MacAllister. It’s available in basically every public database, I suggest you--”

“No, I mean…” MacAllister pauses, turning his coffee cup in his hands. “How did you survive it?” Hermann hears the unspoken in MacAllister’s tone: _the Drift_. The two men stare at each other for some time; Hermann feels as if he’s frozen, stunned by the audacity of this man, who knows nothing, who saw nothing, who could not _possibly_ understand.

“Why, Dr. MacAllister… who's to say that I did?” He responds coolly, and makes his way out of the cafeteria and into the hall, his cane clenched in a white-knuckle grip and his eyes swimming.

* * *

 

His house on Long Island came equipped with a fine greenhouse -- empty, and somewhat battered from lack of use, but completely serviceable. He loves how the kitchen connected directly to it, loves how he could putter around there and still see the yard, the trees and the sea beyond. He has never dabbled in horticulture before, but he thinks he might like to try. After all, he’d spent his whole life fixated on the stars, then on the bathic depths of the ocean. He imagines that staying on his natural level for a while might do him good. He imagines the pleasure of surroundings himself with flowers, fruits and vegetables, herbs and spices, creating a world around him that he can control, one that does not demand anything from him but necessities.

When the weekend finally arrives, Hermann drives out to town and purchases what he needed to begin an herb garden. He figures it best to start small; if he doesn’t have a talent for growing, at the very least he won’t needlessly waste his money. He buys basil and parsley, rosemary and thyme, as well as a box planter and some potting soil. He forgets that he needs gloves until he’s halfway home, but when he pulls open the bag of earth and sifts through it with his hands, he thinks perhaps he enjoys the feel of it. It’s grounding -- he laughs at this unintentional pun -- to touch it, to make a connection with the cool dirt, to feel the leaves of his little sprouts between his fingertips. He feels for the first time since moving to Long Island that he has begun something meaningful.

* * *

 

Samuel MacAllister tracks him like a bloodhound through campus, always seeming to know where to find him when Hermann least expects or desires company. Hermann cannot imagine why he finds it necessary to spend so much time on him. He feels like an elderly man forgotten by his family and doted on by a well-meaning caretaker. MacAllister speaks to him in a way that makes him feel pitied, but he's better than the rest of his colleagues, who tend to simply avoid him, ogling from a distance. Eventually, Hermann tires of trying to escape, and so MacAllister joins him for lunch each day, always bringing some impertinent question with him.

“So tell me about it.” MacAllister requests while they eat their lunches together in the cafeteria. 

“About what?” Hermann replies drily, feigning ignorance as he cuts his sandwich into fourths. 

“The Drift you performed with Dr. Geiszler, of course! Everyone's curious about it, and neither you nor Geiszler published a thing about it.” Hermann lifts his gaze to meet MacAllister’s with as much venom as he can muster.

“Did it occur to you that there might be a  _ reason _ for that?” He says, and MacAllister merely shrugs. 

“I don't know, it just seems like such a waste not to. That kind of data could open up a new field of research, not to mention blow the study of human neurology and psychology wide open.” Hermann sighs as he chews a bite of his sandwich, gazing out the window at students moving to and fro. “I'd give my right arm for a look at it.”

“Dr. MacAllister, I assure you, nothing we saw or experienced in the Drift would change anything, scientific or otherwise.” He finally responds. “Besides, the War is over. Any further study of the Kaiju borders on gauche and insensitive.” 

“Dr. Gottlieb, you and I both know that applications of Kaiju science could--”

“Do you know,” Hermann cuts MacAllister off before he can finish his absurd reply. “how absolutely ignorant you sound right now?” MacAllister blinks, surprised by Hermann's harshness. He doesn’t care; he cannot care. “Do you realize how much pain and misery those monsters inflicted on our world? Do you know the cost of what Dr. Geiszler and I did that night?” Hermann heard his voice growing louder and harsher, could feel eyes on his back, but he could not care to censure himself. “I cannot fathom why we want to entertain their ‘scientific potential’ a moment longer!” 

MacAllister cannot meet his gaze for a while, for which Hermann is grateful; he feels his cheeks burning and his brows jutting downward with frustration, knows he’s made a scene. He should apologize, and yet he cannot find the will to make the words come out. The whispers around him sound like the scratching of chalk on a blackboard; the scraping of chairs on the floor sounds like the cranking gears of metal monstrosities.

“Dr. Gottlieb...I’m sorry.” Hermann looks up from where he’s been staring into the carpet. “I’ve clearly upset you. I shouldn’t have asked about that.” 

“No. You shouldn’t have.” Hermann gathers his things, his hands shaking. 

“Can I help you?” MacAllister asks, eyes full of guilt and a pity that sickened Hermann’s stomach. 

“No. I’ll manage on my own, thank you.” With that, Hermann leaves, MacAllister glued to his chair behind him, wringing his hands.

* * *

 

The summer session ends, and Hermann finds himself presented with a proposition from the university: deliver the commencement address for the incoming class of 2029. Hermann has never given a speech of this nature before, and feels unsuited to the task. The board of directors and the President of the college unanimously agreed, however, that the choice would not only sit well with the audience, but commemorate the significance of the day: the first class of students who would graduate with no fear of death or destruction, who would not have to cope with the shadow of war creeping into their conversations, their thoughts and dreams. Certainly, Hermann agreed that such an occasion carried great symbolic weight. Hermann Gottlieb, however, did not and certainly did not wish to bear that burden.

What on Earth would he say? His last encounter with MacAllister had shown conclusively that he could not speak of the War without losing control of his emotions, and he refuses to humiliate himself in front of a live audience. How could he possibly speak positively of what had happened to him, to his friends and comrades? How could he inspire this next generation to move on and succeed, when he struggled daily to exist? How could he even begin to describe what a world free of the Kaiju truly meant? Nevertheless, he agrees, simply because he does not know how to turn such a thing down, nor can he abide some outside voice, some ignorant ‘authority’, taking his place and making a mockery of what had really happened.

Hermann did not excel in communication, but he knew someone who did. Upon arriving home, he takes out his phone and dials the familiar number belonging to Tendo Choi. 

After the War, Tendo Choi had gone on to become a very successful public relations consultant for the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps: something they desperately needed, given that Operation Pitfall had rendered their relevance much diminished. When the Breach closed, it had been Tendo who approached the PPDC Council with the idea to transform the remaining Jaegers into a symbol for rebirth and reconstruction, essentially creating them into a glorified clean-up crew. He appeared in practically every press conference they held, and looked good while doing it, dressed in an upgraded version of his customary bowtie and suspenders. If anyone could help him, Tendo could. 

Thankfully, Tendo answers his phone quickly, in his customary cheerful style. “Howdy, this is Tendo Choi.”

“Tendo, it’s Dr. -- it’s Hermann Gottlieb.”  He says stupidly, as if he could be any other Hermann in the world.

“Oh, hey, man!” Tendo’s voice lights up with glee. “Great to hear from ya, man. What’s up?” Hermann breathes a little sigh and began.

“Ah, well… Actually, I could use your help with something.” 

“Sure, man. Shoot.” Hermann clears his throat.

“I’m currently teaching Computational Astrophysics at Stony Brook University, on Long Island. The President and Board of Directors -- for some reason -- have asked me to deliver the commencement address for the incoming class, and I…” Hermann pauses, unsure of how to describe his plight.

“You don't know where to start.” Tendo offers.

“That's certainly part of the problem, but the crux of the matter lies in their expectations. It's the first year after the war. They want some kind of statement, some… uplifting, motivational speech about what the future holds, and I don't know if I can do.” 

“Hm.” Tendo doesn't immediately answer. “First of all, congratulations! That’s a crazy awesome honor, man.”

“It feels more like a burden than a blessing, Tendo.” He grumbles, and Tendo lets out a good-natured chuckle. 

“Well, how about I just come over and visit? I’d like to see your new place, and maybe then we can get a solid speech worked out. I’m off work for a while, PPDC doesn’t need me while people still approve of them.” Tendo laughs. “Besides, it’s been six months. We need to catch up.” 

Hermann smiles softly. He loves Tendo’s easy ways and light-hearted attitude, so different from his own. He and his wife Allison never hesitated to give him a hand when he needed it, and had been his closest friends at the Shatterdome. Then again, Tendo made it a policy to befriend as many people as possible. The fact that he offers to come in person does not surprise Hermann, but it does leave an impression. He’d felt very alone here, with only MacAllister on his heels, and he welcomed the prospect of enjoyable company.

“I’d love that, Tendo.” He replies, and Tendo sets a date before hanging up. The silence left in the wake of their conversation leaves Hermann feeling incredibly lonely. He sheds his shoes and walks out to the shore behind the house, letting the stony earth cool his feet and distract him from the mounting anxiety buzzing in his brain. He’d have to get the house ready for Tendo, have to furnish the guest room, not to mention preparing enough food for the both of them. A part of him recognizes the absence of someone to help him, someone with whom he could share this and other burdens, but such a person had only existed once for Hermann, and no more. He watches the sun descend into the trees, watches the sky bleed out in hues of red and orange, then heads back inside when the chill of the evening grows too much for him to bear.

* * *

 

Monday morning, as he arrives to hold his office hours, Hermann finds a note taped to his door:

 

_ Dr. Gottlieb, _

_ I really am sorry for what happened. Me and my big mouth. Coffee on me?  _

_ Sam _

 

Hermann rolls his eyes, rips the note off his door and throws it in the wastebin by his desk. He has no time for conciliations or platitudes, not from a young fool with silly dreams, preoccupied with that terrible world he still struggles to leave behind. He tries to ignore the voice that reminded him of what happened the last time he’d made such a choice. 

Hermann closes the blinds and sits at his desk, staring blankly out the open door into the hall, his heart a beating drum in his ears.

* * *

 

Tendo arrives promptly a few days later on an early morning flight, and Hermann cancels class to fetch him at the airport. Never one to spare physical affection, when he sees Hermann standing in the terminal sipping his morning tea from a paper cup with a look of exhaustion on his face, he immediately pulls him into a tight hug. Hermann reciprocates, resisting the urge to yawn.

“Hey, Hermann. Wow, man, it’s great to see you.” 

“Likewise, Tendo. You look well.” Hermann replies, taking another sip of his tea. 

“Sorry about the early flight. It was the fastest I could get.” Tendo smiles apologetically. “I did bring you a present though.” Tendo pulls out his wallet and flashes a couple of photographs, both of them of a small child sleeping in the arms of its mother. 

“Oh, my goodness.” Hermann smiles warmly. “This must be your son.”

“Yeah. Hector Arcani Choi. Ain’t he a cutie?” He beams with pride, and Hermann agrees. “Sometime you’re gonna have to come to San Francisco and visit him. He should meet his godfather, at least one of them.” Tendo had made practically every major staff member at the Hong Kong Shatterdome godparents to his unborn child, but Hermann had appreciated the gesture nonetheless. He looks down at the tiny creature in the photos and bites back a pang of jealousy, not so much for the child as something else, a deeper need.

“I’d certainly love to. Perhaps during the fall recess?” Hermann leads Tendo out to his car, all the while listening as his friend regales him with stories about what’s happened in Geneva, in California, in China. Apparently, the Jaeger program had entered a new phase of development, one focused on community support and defense. Hermann tries to pay attention, but there comes a strange ringing in his ears, and soon Tendo’s voice softens to a muffled buzzing, drowned out by the sound of rushing water, of crackling circuits.

“Hermann, you okay?” Tendo asks, his hand on Hermann's shoulder. The noise dissipated, almost as quickly as it had came. 

“Fine. I'm fine, Tendo, naturally.” Tendo raises an eyebrow. 

“You ran a red light.” 

“Lots of people run red lights.” Hermann fires back, undaunted. Tendo looks as if he wants to continue arguing, but soon sighs in defeat.

“You know, I feel like it's good I came here in person.” 

When they arrive at Hermann's home, Tendo immediately begins to gush. He loves it, it's  _ so  _ him, he says. He’s surprised it's so large, he loves the wall hangings and the curtains and the lounging couch Hermann had bought for his leg. He compliments his tiny herb garden, he practically yells when he sees the backyard view. Hermann can't help but smile as he watches him; for all that he enjoyed quiet, the presence of his boisterous friend makes him feel more at home than ever.

Eventually, things calm. Tendo takes his suitcase to the guest room and Hermann prepares tea, sets out scones he'd baked a few nights before. The ability to cook and bake his own food had salvaged Hermann's sanity; just like the garden, it gave him goals and deadlines and rules to follow. He orders his life around recipes for bread and the garden watering schedule, he tells Tendo with a thin laugh.

“Cooking and gardening, huh? Honestly, I thought you'd go right back to research.” Tendo drinks his tea and leans back in his chair. “I take it you and Newt still give each other hell?” Hermann freezes with the tray of scones in his hands, then smiles, far too big.

“Actually, I haven't seen Newton since we left Hong Kong.” He answers, and Tendo abruptly stops buttering his scone, a shocked expression on his face. 

“What? Seriously? I can’t believe that.” Hermann turns around to fetch the jam from the fridge, largely to avoid Tendo’s gaze.

“Can’t you?” 

“Honestly, I’m surprised he’s not here with you right now.” Hermann drops the jar of jam in his hand. “You got that?” 

“Yes, I’ll fetch it myself.” Carefully, Hermann kneels down on his good leg and fetches the rogue jelly. “I cannot possibly imagine why you expected Newton here.” A long silence stretches out between the two friends. Hermann can feel Tendo’s eyes on his back as he spreads blackberry jam on his scone at the kitchen counter. “I do hope you’re not subscribing to that utter nonsense about Drift partners falling in love. You realize there’s no science behind that? It’s romanticized tabloid trash.” 

“Hermann.” Tendo’s voice sounds grave and serious. “You and I both know that’s not what I’m talking about.” They finish breakfast in silence. 

After Hermann and Tendo clean the dishes, they head out to the garden, where since moving Hermann had acquired a pair of neat lawn chairs and a little glass-top table, all painted a robin’s egg blue. Hermann brings out a notepad, some pens, and several books he picked up at the university library regarding speech and oration -- he figured they couldn’t hurt. Tendo sits down with a contented sigh and looks out at the view: the trees framing the little path down to the shore, the redbuds and goldenrods swaying gently in the light breeze, the neatly trimmed yard.

“Man, Hermann, you picked a great place.” 

“Thank you, Tendo. I wanted something where I could find a bit of peace and seclusion. Goodness knows after ten years crammed into a sardine can with 20000 other souls, we could all use it.” Hermann labels the top page of his notepad in narrow cursive:  _ Commencement Speech Notes _ . As Hermann glances back up at Tendo, he looks as if he wants to say something, but simply shakes his head.

“What exactly do you want to say in this speech, Hermann?” Tendo asks, crossing his legs and swinging an arm over the back of his chair. Hermann took a deep breath.

“I want to stay away from the romance of the War. I want to tell these young people something meaningful, something constructive that will guide them forward in this post-War world. I don’t want them to feel as if they can simply rest on their laurels; I want to encourage them to take charge of this peacetime world and make it what they want.”

Tendo shrugs. “I dunno, Hermann. That sounds like a solid topic to me.” Hermann heaves a frustrated sigh.

“ _ Yes _ , but how to  _ say  _ it! That’s why I need your assistance.” For a while, Tendo says nothing. Hermann feels decidedly uncomfortable in the silence, and goes on. “I’ve never been particularly skilled with words, Tendo.  _ You _ understand how to speak to people without sounding vain or affectatious or rude. This address will set the tone for the entire year!”

“You know what I think, Hermann?” Tendo finally responded, patting Hermann’s forearm from across the table, a kind smile on his lips. “I think you’d have less trouble with this if you’d follow your own advice.” 

“What -- what exactly do you mean by that?” Hermann laughed, a little too loudly. “I've done exactly that! I've found a home, a profession, hobbies--”

“Hermann.” A strange, knowing sadness washed across Tendo's face. “Why'd you buy a house with three bedrooms?”

* * *

 

_ Hermann dreams that he cannot breathe. He dreams that a riptide carries him away from shore, that a powerful current has pulled him beneath a cold, cruel ocean. As he drifts, he sees behind his lids a thousand faces, hundreds of hideous fingers grasping at his wrists and ankles. When he opens his eyes, he sees above him a hand outstretched, bleeding a thousand colors into the black water, the light of the sun blinding-- _

Hermann bolts upright in his bed, clutching at his neck and soaked to the skin with sweat. He looked frantically around himself and registered his surroundings -- home. He pushes his hands through his damp hair and takes a shuddering breath. He'd avoided such dreams since moving to Long Island, but now they crept back into his bed, invading his mind. Why? 

“Hermann?” He hears Tendo's groggy voice outside his door. “You alright, man?”

“I'm…” 

“I heard you screaming.” Tendo continues, and Hermann swipes his hands over his eyes.

“I'm quite alright, Tendo. Thank you.” 

“Are you sure?” A long silence.  _ Was  _ he sure? He thought he had transitioned flawlessly to private life. He thought he could handle this.

“Yes. I'm sure.” 

“Alright. Good night, Hermann.” Another pause, and Hermann listens to Tendo's footsteps shuffling away, He hears nothing now but the call of birds and frogs outside his window. He lies back down in his bed, curling around his pillow and closing his eyes tight.

* * *

 

Before long, the time for Hermann's commencement speech arrives. Tendo agrees to attend, though his work requires him to leave shortly after. Hermann doesn't mind; quite frankly, he misses living alone, in part because Tendo occupies himself with incessantly picking at Hermann's psyche. As such, he'd spent much of Tendo's visit holed away in his study, preparing his syllabus and class materials, outlining essay prompts, compiling required reading. When he emerged, usually around dinner time, the two quite often went out to eat at one of the many local restaurants and cafes that dotted the Long Island coast. At least on these occasions, Tendo behaved himself and kept his conversations limited to small talk. 

When Hermann and Tendo arrive at the auditorium, they find themselves attracting a great deal of attention. Everyone already knows Hermann by sight, and the many attentive eyes unnerve him. He heads straight to the backstage area, where a table bearing water bottles and mints stands ready. Around him, professors garbed in their best tweed and wool chat quietly, waiting for the cue to enter the main stage. Tendo wishes him goodbye with a double thumbs-up, and he waves back, feeling very much as if he needs to lie down. 

“Dr. Gottlieb!” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd, and Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Dr. MacAllister. Lovely.” MacAllister approaches as if they're best friends, all smiles, but when he reaches Hermann, he seems to cool, suddenly remembering himself.

“It's...great to see you again. Did you enjoy the recess?” 

“Yes. Quite refreshing.” Hermann answers flatly. “Why are you here, precisely?” MacAllister laughs nervously and pulls at the sleeves of his too-small blazer. 

“Well, I've been asked to talk about the new Planar Xeno program, promote it, as it were.” 

“Oh, of course.” Hermann shoots back, and MacAllister chews his lip.

“Dr. Gottlieb, I'm...really sorry for our last conversation. I didn't think about your feelings at all. I don't want to go into the new year with this hanging over our heads. I want us to be colleagues, friends.” MacAllister looks truly penitent, no doubt desperate to rebuild a bridge between them for the sake of his thrice-damned Kaiju Studies. Nevertheless… Hermann remembers a time when two young scientists rubbed each other wrong, the years of misunderstanding, the cloud of bitterness that thundered over them. Hermann sighs deeply and shoves his free hand into his pocket, where he's hidden his notes. 

“I forgive you.” He says quickly, and MacAllister visibly relaxes.

“Thank you, Doctor. I really do hope--” Before MacAllister can finish his sentence, Hermann receives his cue, and finds himself guided before the thousands of students, parents and guests he had prepared for, deafening applause welcoming him in. He'd never received such a warm and enthusiastic greeting in his life, and he feels his cheeks grow hot. 

“Thank you.” He croaks into the microphone, and he's grateful that some thoughtful soul has provided a glass of water, concealed on a shelf just below the top of the podium. His voice sounds too loud; his eyes ache from the bright lights pointed in his direction. He drinks deeply from the glass and replaces it, closes his eyes and begins, his notes forgotten in his pocket. 

“Like you, I am a newcomer to this place. I have had many moments like this in my life, where I have found myself thrust into a moment I feel entirely unequipped to face. Indeed, I… I feel that way now. I hope you'll be patient with me.”

“Sometimes, life will call you to tasks you cannot imagine you'll ever conquer. The War came upon us like a tidal wave, smashing against us again and again, destroying millions of lives. Myself and the far greater men and women I served with had to hold on by our nails to continue fighting, and your parents likely remember similar experiences: trying to make it through the fear, desperately holding onto normally and what is right in the world.”

“You represent the future without fear, without dread, without terror. You represent the brightest and best hopes of all of us who survived. After all, you are survivors too. Your legacy will be one of glorious success, but I hope also one of compassion, of diligence and of service to the family we all belong to: the family of mankind.”

“A very wise man, one of the greatest minds I ever knew, once said that “fortune favors the brave”. It is my sincere hope that whatever path you carve or trail you blaze, fortune goes with you, now and forever. Thank you.”

As he finishes, Hermann stares out at the crowd rising from their seats and applauding, some cheering and whooping, a few of the older audience members wiping tears from their cheeks. He feels almost numb, and even as he smiles he cannot quite determine how to feel. He scans the room, searching for Tendo in the seats--

He sees Newton Geiszler, plain as day, at the back of the auditorium, but when he blinks away the flash of cameras and floodlights, he has already ducked out the door.

* * *

 

Three days after the commencement ceremony, fall classes begin, and Hermann finds himself drawn once more into the cycle of class, grading, committee meetings, office hours, on and on. He gets to know his students, memorizes their names, tries his best to ignore the rolling of eyes when he announces exams and quizzes. He carves himself out a place at Stony Brook, one ruled by order and routine, one conveniently allowing himself very little time for introspection.

Out of the blue, he receives a phone call from his elder brother, Dietrich, on his way out to lunch. He answers it, and braces himself for the 

explosion of sound. 

“Hermann! How are you? Ahh, it's so lovely to hear your voice again. I've missed you terribly!”

Hermann sighs and smiles fondly, holding the phone on his shoulder as he opens the door to the cafeteria.

“You hadn't even heard my voice yet, Dietrich.” Dietrich laughed. 

“Well,  _ now _ I have!” 

Dietrich spends a large portion of their conversation regaling Hermann with stories about their family: how Karla’s wife had successfully given birth to their twins, how his own sons Heinrich and Franz had just begun school again, how the Pan-Pacific Academy of Science had just reprinted his father's theorems and equations in a new volume. 

“We watched your speech online. You did a spectacular job, even though you looked something like a deer in the headlights!” Dietrich chuckles and Hermann tries to laugh with him, finding it suddenly a very daunting task. 

“I'm glad you appreciated it. I certainly had no clue what I was doing.” 

“So,  _ bruderlein.  _ I have a question.” Dietrich seems to have finally rounded the corner to his purpose in calling. “Would a visit inconvenience you?” Hermann feels very taken aback; his family loved each other, but their collective ambition and wanderlust made reunions few and far between. He hasn't seen his older brother in nearly five years -- the last time, he'd video messaged him from Anchorage, and only for about ten minutes. The prospect of seeing him in the flesh both excites and unnerves him. 

“No, of course not, but… Aren't you busy?” Dietrich worked as an architect in Berlin, and often traveled overseas to manage projects in China, America, England and more. Of all the Gottliebs, he had wandered farthest and seen the most. Somehow, he still managed to stay grounded, easily the most humble and good-natured of all four siblings.

“No, no! I've nothing to do for weeks. My last project no longer requires my attention, so i thought I'd spend a few days with you before heading back home. I want to seen your house! Your garden! Mother told me you've been planting.” 

“Well, I suppose I mentioned something about it last time she called.” Hermann mutters, a bit embarrassed by how much his brother knows about his new life. 

“Can I come?” Dietrich repeats, his voice brimming with excitement. Hermann sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose; for all his hopes of living a quiet, secluded life, he seems to have found himself totally incapable of maintaining one. 

“I suppose. When?” 

“Oh, wonderful! Whenever you like, Hermann. I'm at your disposal.” Hermann suggests that Dietrich come the following weekend, to which he heartily agrees. “I'll bring photos and letters --oh! You'll have to introduce me to your friend! The one you've told me so much about!” Hermann's heart flies to his throat. 

“...That won't be possible, Dietrich.” His voice barely breaks a whisper. 

“Oh, why not? That's a shame. I know how much you--” 

“I'm very sorry, Dietrich, I must get going. Please forgive me. I'll see you soon.” Hermann hangs up, regretting that he did not tell his brother that he loved him. Funny that; it seemed to Hermann a habit at which he consistently excelled. 

By the weekend, Hermann has restocked the guest bath, swept and mopped, replenished his groceries, cleared the guest bedroom of any leftover flotsam from Tendo's visit, and trimmed the plants growing contentedly in his greenhouse. By now, he has expanded into a variety of ferns and succulents -- plants that his local florist assured him he could handle. Cleaning with a disability made for miserable work, and by Friday he has considered hiring a housekeeper at least two dozen times. At thirty-six, he feels rolled up, wrung out, hung out to dry. He feels like the dead leaves skittering across the cobblestone path leading to his door: a fleeting husk, devoid of color and lazily tossed toward an unknown destination on a fickle breeze. 

Thankfully, Dietrich arrives the next day, precisely on time, and the bone-crushing hug Hermann receives reminds him that he's alive. Dietrich fawns over the house, both enamored by its simplicity and inspired by all the improvements it “needed”. As his brother goes on about new shutters and paint, Hermann takes a good look at him: he's gained weight, but at six-feet-one, he carries it well. He has the look of a man who has happiness built into his bones and muscles, his corners soft and eyes bright. Like Hermann, he dresses like something between a librarian and a octogenarian, but his clothes fit like a glove, elegantly tailored. He looks as if he belongs in his clothes, that they're a part of him. Dietrich has always been this way: easy, casual, and entirely lovable.

Hermann invites him in, and the whole thing begins again. Thankfully, Dietrich did not go to school for interior decorating, and he loses steam much more quickly, satisfied with settling into one of Hermann's leather chairs with a contented sigh.

“Well, Hermann, I must say you've done well. You have chosen a lovely place, but...” Dietrich frowns and purses his lips, a familiar expression that Hermann knows well. From childhood on, it signalled one thing: the beginning of a lecture. 

“Dietrich, spare me.” Hermann rolls his eyes. “I’ve already gotten this speech from Tendo. I’m happy here. I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look happy at all.” Dietrich responds. “You look lonely and sad. I’ve thought so ever since I met you at the airport.” 

“Well, you’re wrong. I’m very tired from teaching this week, it’s time for quarterly exams, and I--” Dietrich held up his hand.

“Hermann. Tell me what happened.” His brother’s voice, gentle but firm, coaxes a wave of emotion out of Hermann that he had not prepared for. He's furious, he's anguished; his broken heart bleeds into his chest, making it hard to breathe. He does not know how to express this, nor does he care to try. Instead, he clenches his jaw, squeezes the handle of his cane, and smiles. 

“You haven't told me what you'd like for dinner.”

* * *

 

That evening, Hermann takes Dietrich to the small pier behind his house, down the narrow dirt path that opens up onto a long strip of shore. Dietrich declares that this would make a lovely spot for a boathouse, perhaps a bonfire, and Hermann chuckles to himself as he nudges his shoes and socks off his feet. Both Dietrich and Hermann roll up their pant legs and sit on the dock, cooling their feet in the water. They watch the sunset together, and for a brief moment Hermann feels eight years old again, looking up to his brother as he tosses rocks into a pond.

“Beautiful. I can really see why you chose this spot, Hermann.” Dietrich sighs and smiles, his arms crossed over his chest. “I miss seeing you. I always enjoyed our talks.” 

“So did I, Dietrich. You always…” Hermann feels the bile of tears rise up in his throat. “You always knew what to say.” 

“That's only because I've lived it. We Gottliebs had similar lives, similar problems.” Dietrich laughs, but he's looking at Hermann and his dark brows furrow with worry. “I feel like… maybe I've lost my touch nowadays.” Hermann swallows hard as Dietrich continues, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. “Something has happened to you, something I don't think I will ever understand, and you've suffered for it. I feel powerless to help you, but I wish you'd tell me. I wish you'd let me try to help.” 

Hermann says nothing for a long time, chews the inside of his lip until he draws blood, blunks away the sheen of tears in his eyes. He tries his best to focus on the sound of owls and crickets in the coming night, the coolness of the water on his skin, tries desperately to stay calm. 

“Please, Hermann.” Dietrich slides a hand around Hermann's, where it rested on his thigh, clenched so tightly that the tendons ached. Hermann's ears buzzed, and finally to his shame a tear fell from his lashes onto his trousers. He has lost, he realizes, but it's too late to stop the words; they drop from his mouth like bricks tumbling away from a battered old wall. 

“I let… I let him leave, Dietrich.” Hermann whispers, his voice cracking around the weight of his sorrow. “I could have h-had him, and I let him slip through my fingers!” The dam has broken now; he sobs and shakes, his voice echoing across the bay. “I'm a coward… A damned c-coward!” Dietrich waits for Hermann, saying nothing but pulling his clenched fingers apart, rubbing them gently and never letting go. He stays quiet until Hermann's broken sobs taper out to an occasional whimper; God knew how long his brother had been holding in this agony, stuffing it down so deep even he could not remember where to find it. 

“You're talking about Dr. Geiszler, aren't you?” Hermann nods, burying his face in his hands. “What happened between you two?”

“It doesn't matter, he's gone, he--” Dietrich puts a firm hand on his shoulder and gently shakes him.  

“Hermann, it _ does  _ matter. Your feelings matter. Your love for him matters.” Dietrich pulls him against his chest, and Hermann does not fight. He cannot remember the last time he's been held by another person, and the sensation overwhelms him. He shivers and lays his head against Dietrich’s chest. 

“I'm sorry. I'm ruining your visit.” Hermann croaks, and Dietrich shakes his head. 

“You're doing no such thing.” He replies. “Come on, let's go inside.” Hermann nods, lets Dietrich help him to his feet and walks with him back to the house. Dietrich makes Hermann’s favorite tea and covers him with a blanket, and after he takes a few sips, he finds his voice again. 

“I don't even know where to start. I suppose… this began with the Drift.” Hermann explains how he'd found Newton Geiszler sprawled in the floor of their shared laboratory, hooked up to a Pons made of junk, Drifting with a Kaiju. He tells him how he realized the depth of his love for Newton then, but how he kept his mouth shut, even after he volunteers to help do it again, to “share the load”. When they Drifted together, Hermann says with a smile, they blurred into one being, one consciousness, and yet he could see Newton so clearly, so distinctly, that the knowledge nearly overwhelmed him. He recalls how after the War, they'd crashed together like two comets colliding in space, taking each other until their connection finally burnt out. When the morning had come, they parted wordlessly, and so it had remained: neither of them approached the other, they neither talked nor glanced in each other's direction. Somehow, the experience had served only to cement the gulf between them, to dredge up more questions than answers. Only on the final day, when the Shatterdome officially closed its doors, did they speak. He does not go into detail about what passed between them, does not explain how he saw his own longing reflected in Newton's eyes, how he had felt his tongue turn to lead in his mouth, but he does not have to. Dietrich understands.

“Hermann, I know it’s hard to express yourself. You’re just like our father in that way, always so reticent to show weakness, always shoring up your defenses.” Dietrich pauses for a moment, considering carefully his next words as if they may be his last. “Do you still love him?”

“Yes.” Hermann answers with no hesitation.

“Then you need to tell him. There’s no reason to hold back anymore. The War’s over, Hermann. All we have left to do is live our lives.” Dietrich smiles and kisses the top of his brother’s head, as he did when they were young. “I know it’s not that easy. Just… know that it  _ can  _ be.” Dietrich forces Hermann to lie down, to rest. He feels his entire body uncoil like a serpent, lets his muscles relax and soon, he’s asleep.

* * *

 

_ “Hey, Hermann.” Eight months ago, Newton stands across from Hermann on the tarmac as dozens of dollies and loading trucks roll past them. Everyone and everything moves with an urgency that makes Hermann’s back knot with tension. As he turns to face Newton, this horrible, brilliant man he’s spent nearly half his life knowing, and almost just as long admiring, he finds himself frozen there. Nothing exists in this moment for Hermann but a leather jacket bunching at the elbows, a ring of red around a startling green eye. _

_ “Newton.” Hermann wills himself to smile, and Newton returns it, with almost equal difficulty.  _

_ “Man, didn’t ever think this day would come, honestly.” Newton shoves his hands in his pockets, and Hermann drags his eyes away, focusing instead on the ocean catching the morning sun. Seagulls scream above them, and a light breeze carries the scent of sea to their nostrils, caressing their hair and cheeks. For a moment, he thinks the scene almost grotesque in its perfection. This moment should not look so beautiful. _

_ “The end of the war?” He asks. _

_ “No.” Newton scuffs the ground with his boot, his smile flickering, fading. “I mean, the end of us.” _

* * *

 

Dietrich leaves a few days later, and Hermann finds himself alone again. Rather than hole himself up, he spends most of his time out: if not teaching class or in his office, he finds excuses to walk around campus, down to the nearby coffee shop, the public library, the park. Every day, he wears himself out walking, without purpose, his leg and hip throbbing as he pushes on and on. He thinks that if he keeps moving, he cannot have time to think about what he knows he must do. He hopes.

On one of his walks, he stops into a hole-in-the-wall cafe and bookstore, one of a dying breed. It consists of a single room, long and narrow, with a wider square area for tables and chairs toward the back. The bar sits to his left, where a young woman with pink hair and an enormous tattoo of a dragon mixes up a macchiato. He jerks his eyes away from the snarling beast coiled around her arm and focuses instead on the wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with dusty novels, encyclopedias, biographies, all rendered obsolete by time and technological advancement. 

As he walks forward, the bartender smiles and waves at him. She asks if she can get him something, and he declines politely, moving past her toward the seating area. There, he spots Samuel MacAllister, typing away on a skinny laptop and chewing on a toothpick. 

“Good afternoon, Dr. MacAllister.” MacAllister looks up from his work and grins. 

“Dr. Gottlieb, hi! Please, sit down. You look tired.” He obliges, his leg throbbing too much to refuse. “It's great to see you again. 

“Is this where you would have brought me, had i agreed to your conciliatory coffee last summer?” Hermann asks, eyes still drawn to the books standing guard over them like watchmen.  

“Yeah, probably. I love working here. It's not as popular as the bigger, trendier cafés, so I don't have to see much of students or faculty. I like getting away from them to work.” Hermann smiled at that. 

“I certainly commiserate.” Hermann taps the table with his finger. He wishes he'd turned around and kept walking; he feels his thoughts rebelling against him. “Dr. MacAllister…” Hermann begins. “Are you married?” 

“Huh? Wha--oh, haha, yes. I'm married.” MacAllister hoists up a chain from his shirt,.from which dangles a silver ring. “Can't wear it on my finger when I'm handling specimens.” 

“I understand.” Hermann chews on his bottom lip. “Did you and your spouse enjoy a friendship prior to meeting?” 

“We did. We attended undergrad together. We shared a lot of classes, we both majored in biochemistry. Of course now, she's an artist. Go figure, huh?” Hermann nods solemnly. 

“Did you… did your friendship suffer when you began…” MacAllister gives him an odd look.

“Dr. Gottlieb, are you in love?”  Hermann barks a laugh, far too loudly in this quiet space. For a moment he considers prevaricating, but isn't that how he'd made this mess in the first place?

“I suppose you could say that. Please, answer me.” MacAllister sighs and seems to think on this for a moment. 

“I wouldn't say it suffered, just transformed. We stayed largely the same, but… our attitude toward each other grew softer, more comfortable. We didn't have to pretend to be someone we weren't anymore -- we already knew we loved each other, regardless of our weird habits and shit like that.” 

“Of course…” Hermann nods. “I suppose that does make sense.” 

“Hey, Dr. Gottlieb.” MacAllister smiles and takes a drink of coffee, setting it down on a stained napkin square. “For what it's worth, the alternative isn't worth it.”

Hermann has to call a cab to take him back to campus; his legs won’t carry him to his car. As he drives home, MacAllister’s advice jostles around in his head, and he turns up the volume on his radio, currently tuned to Global Public Radio. The two hosts discuss a wide variety of scientific topics -- it’s Hermann’s favorite segment, one he listens to every day on the drive back from work. 

_ “Reading through Dr. Geiszler’s older work, you couldn’t have guessed that he would make such a damaging career move.”  _ The older host grumbles, and Hermann freezes.

_ “Academia these days limits what we’re capable of as scientists,  _ his co-host responds, matter-of-factly.  _ Certainly, it grants us supplies -- sometimes -- and grant money -- occasionally, but don’t we have to work for those things anyway? I say, kudos to him for seeking a more independent line of work. _

_ “‘Independent’, you say? I don’t see how working for a multi-billion dollar company would provide  _ anyone _ a modicum of ‘freedom’. And in China? Absolutely absurd.”  _

The rest of the broadcast fades into nothingness, Hermann’s ears ringing and his mind in chaos. He hadn’t heard wrong, had he? A different Dr. Geiszler, yes, for the one _ he  _ knew despised corporatism and capitalism, decried it as “fascist” and “a fucking disgrace”. The words return to his mind as if Newton says them now, beside him in the car. 

The word “China” terrifies him most. It beats against the inside of his skull, screaming obscenities and shaking him by the shoulders. 

Hermann turns into the driveway and rushes into the car, the sky darkening with massive rainclouds. He doesn’t lock the doors, doesn’t even fetch his bag. He unlocks the front door with shaky hands, throws it open and heads inside. The hand not gripping his cane like his life depends on it fishes for his cell phone and searches desperately for a number he has not called in nearly a year. He brings the phone to his ear, his breathing labored and his eyes watering.

The phone rings once, twice, five times before there’s a click, and Hermann has his breath taken away.

_ Hey! Newt Geiszler here -- no autographs please.  _ Hermann rolls his eyes, but can’t stop a smile from creeping to his lips.  _ Leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to ya ASAP. Peace! _

A beep.

“Newton? It’s… it’s Hermann Gottlieb, I... “ Hermann swallows hard, but a tear escapes the corner of his eye nonetheless. He’s never felt so scared in all his life. “I wanted to ask… well, I just wanted to know how you’re…” He screws his eyes shut and forces the words, the  _ right  _ words, out of his chest. “Please… I need to see you. I miss you. I don’t want to… I can give you my address, if that helps.” He rattles it off. “Before you go, I w-would love to have you over for dinner. Call me or just --” The answering system beeps again, signalling the end of his message. Hermann holds the phone silently, listening to the rain batter his roof and the thunder roll.

* * *

 

Hermann wakes to the sound of wheels crunching on his driveway, the low hum of an engine. At first, he thinks he's imagining it, and reaches for his phone: 2:45 AM. A pang of fear shoots through him; had a burglar decided to try his luck? Perhaps he'd learned of the man who moved in, who walked with a cane and a limp, and decided he would make an easy target.  _ Well, _ Hermann thinks to himself.  _ He shall soon be proven wrong. _

Hermann rises quietly from his bed just as he hears a car door open and shut. Through his blinds, he sees the lights go dark, just notices a shadow moving toward his house. He quickly slides his slippers on and grabs his cane, ignoring the stiffness of his hip as he limps as quickly as he can to the door. On the way, he snatches a flashlight -- perhaps he can blind the bastard before he strikes. The rain still roars above him, and he wonders exactly what kind of burglar decides to rob a man in the middle of a thunderstorm. 

To his surprise, he hears a knock at the door, and readies himself to strike as he moves to answer it. His heart pounds in his chest, and his hand shakes around the stem of his cane. If he strikes fast enough, perhaps he can subdue them and call the authorities… 

Hermann throws opens the door and stares, dumbstruck. 

“Hey, Hermann.” Newton Geiszler raises a hand in greeting. He's soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his forehead.

“N-newton?” Hermann finally managed to stutter. “Come -- come in, please.” He moves to let Newton walk inside and continues to look him over in absolute shock. He looks the same as ever, he observes: dressed in too-tight jeans and and worn-out boots, his leather jacket dripping all over the floor. He takes it off, casting a hesitant glance as if asking,  _ can I?  _ “Yes, of course. Hang it on the coat rack behind you.” He complies, and when he turns around the two of them simply stop and stare. Hermann wants to speak, but cannot find the right words. In truth, he never dreamed Newton would take him up on the offer to visit, let alone drive from Cambridge  _ that night.  _ The reality of this left Hermann in utter disbelief. He looks Newton in the eye, and sees the same lack of surety. It's perhaps the frat time in nearly twelve years that he'd ever seen Newton hesitate. 

“I got your message.” He says, breaking the silence at last.

“Ah, y-yes. I'm glad, I…” Hermann flushes in spite of himself. “I certainly didn't expect you tonight, you could have called.” Newt laughs, his voice a bit too high, a bit too harsh. He's nervous.

“Well, you know me! I guess I just wanted to surprise you, man!” Newton chews his lip. “Wasn't  _ too _ surprising, was it?” 

“No, no, it's…” Hermann steps forward a bit, taking closer stock of his old friend. He can see the tattoos peeking out from beneath his rain-soaked shirt; his lips look incredibly dry and chapped; Hermann doesn't know how he can see through his glasses, they're so filthy. “It's quite alright.” 

“Good, hehehe. You know me, I don't think things through too much.” They continue to stand in Hermann's entryway, awkward and unsure, as if held back by invisible strings.

“Would you...like some coffee or--” 

“I'm okay. Had too many--”

“Those energy drinks will kill you.” 

“I hope I didn't--”

“Yes, it’s quite alright, I hadn't slept well anyway.” They respond faster than the other can speak, their old patterns reaffirming themselves, rendering speech useless. They stand, still as stone, and stare. Between them passes an unspoken sign, a spark which erupts into a blast of heat inside Hermann's gut.

Neither of them move first; they both crash into each other simultaneously, Newt's rain-slick hands grasping at his face as their lips find each other, Hermann's arms wrapping around Newt for purchase. Hermann wants to cry; the heaviness nesting inside his chest flies away, and he feels peace for the first time in nearly a year. 

“Hermann...fuck--!!” Newt slips and stumbles on the wet hardwood floor and they tumble down together, Hermann catching Newt's weight with a grunt. “Fuck, oh fuck, I'm sorry--” Hermann cuts him off with another kiss, harder still than the first. Newton moans and pushes Hermann onto his back, burying his cold hands in his hair. 

“Newton...oh, Newton, darling…” Hermann hears the words leave him almost unbidden, just as the tears running down his cheeks slip past unnoticed. Newton doesn't respond with words; instead he presses searing kisses to his jaw and cheeks and neck, all the while fumbling with the buttons of Hermann's shirt. Hermann reaches around Newton's head and cradles the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Hermann…” Newton whispers, more quietly than Hermann's ever heard him speak. “We can't stay on the floor.” 

“Now  _ you're _ the sensible one? Hermann chuckles past the sob catching in his throat. Newton stands up and laughs with him as he helps Hermann to his feet, handing him his cane. With his other hand, he guides Newton down the hall to his room, where his bed waited unmade. 

“C’mere, Hermann…” Newt backs into the bed and pulls Hermann along, wrapping his arms around his neck and crushing their mouths together again. For a moment, Hermann thinks it reminds him of their night together after the Drift, but realizes quickly that this time, it's different. This time, he does not feel that terrible dread, that fear of the end. Instead, he sees before him the thousands of days ahead, waiting to unfold between them like pages of a book. He knows now how he can ensure it.

“Newton, I love you.” He murmurs against Newton's jaw, his fingers trailing down to the waistband of his jeans. “I love you, darling, darling man.” Newton nods, and Hermann pulls his damp shirt out of his pants, relishing the heat of his skin beneath his hands. 

“Herms, I -- fuck, I'm sorry. I should have said something different, I shouldn't have been such a  _ fucking--” _

“Coward?” Newt looks up at him with bloodshot eyes and Hermann kisses his temple. “We're cowards both, my dear.” 

“I love you, Hermann.” Newton gasps as Hermann kisses his chest, sending goosebumps across his skin. “Fuck, I love you…”

“I know. My sweet, brilliant man, I know that now.” Hermann groans as Newton slots his thigh between his legs. They're both burning, their touches and kisses setting each other ablaze. “Forgive me, Newton. I left you all alone.”

“Apologize later, I need something else right now.” Newt grins and arches his hips against Hermann.

“So cheeky.” Hermann laughs softly, catching one of Newton's nipples in his mouth. He'd hated these tattoos so deeply, rejected what they signified to Newton, and yet now he could not imagine knowing him without. Nor did he want to; they made Newton even more precious and unique.

Hermann pushes Newton's shirt off of his shoulders and tosses it away just as Newton yanks Hermann's tartan pajama bottoms to his knees, then his boxer briefs, leaving Hermann naked from the waist down. Newton wastes little time in turning Hermann over onto his back and moving his head between his legs. Hermann's breath hitches and his hips twitch upward involuntarily; not every thought of Newton has consisted of pining for lost love, after all. 

“Newton, do you--” 

“ _ Yes. _ ” He whispers insistently before wrapping his lips around Hermann's cock. 

“Oh, N-newton…” Hermann cards his fingers through Newton's damp hair as he sucks and teased him, sliding his tongue along the underside of the shaft. Hermann has never received this sort of treatment from Newton; their last encounter had happened so quickly, so feverishly, that they had only just managed to complete the necessary preparations. Now, he felt almost spoiled by Newton's attention -- but then, he looked as if he was enjoying himself, too. 

Newton takes more of him into his mouth, pushes Hermann's legs apart and rubbing the muscles there, still sore from the punishing routine he'd adopted for the past week. Hermann wanted badly to reciprocate, and gently tugged at Newt's hair.

“What?” Newton looked up with an expression somewhere between concern and irritation. “I just started--” Hermann sits up and hoists Newton close, so that their legs folded around one another. He unbuckles Newton's belt and yanks it out of the loops before going in on the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Help me.” Hermann mutters, kissing along the line of Newt’s ribcage. Newt complies, shimmying out of his jeans before returning to Hermann’s lap. “Newton, what do you want?” He breathes hotly on Newton’s neck, slides his hands up his back and down to his ass, giving it a squeeze. 

“Dude, don’t you already know?” Newt smiles and kisses Hermann hard, and when their teeth clack together, they both pull back and laugh. 

“Oh, Newton, I’ve missed you.” Hermann touches Newton’s face, skimming the pad of his thumb over his stubbled cheek. “Please, tell me you won’t go.” 

“Oh, so… You heard, huh?” Newt pulls his eyes away, looking almost ashamed. “Yeah, I got offered the job a few months after we left the ‘Dome. Too good to be true, honestly. Six figures, crazy benefits package, cushy apartment. Rent paid, research expenses paid. It… I dunno, I guess I figured, why not?” Hermann takes Newton’s wrist and squeezes it tight.

“If you go to China, I will follow you.” He replies, his tone grave and serious.

“I wouldn’t hate that.” Newton shrugged, chuckling half-heartedly.

“But you would hate that job, wouldn’t you? Be honest with yourself, Newton. I have  _ never _ known you to sell yourself to anyone’s code or ethics, or their business model.” Hermann smiles wryly. “Besides, what will they do when they find out they’ll be lodging a stowaway?” 

“Come on, Herms, you can’t…” 

“I am. Please, Newton. Stay here with me. Or I’ll move to Cambridge, I don’t care. We can buy another bloody house.” Hermann presses his head against Newt’s chest. He hears Newton’s heart beating and he tries to memorize the sound. “Please. I’m no six-figure salary, but… we can try to be happy together. I know I will never be happy alone.” Newton gently tilts Hermann’s head up and kisses him. Neither of them say a word, and yet they understand.

“Yeah, me… me either. Nothing’s been the same since…” Newton’s voice cracks. “Do you still dream about it?” Hermann presses his fingers to Newton’s lips.

“Hush. There’s time for that later.” He presses a dozen kisses to Newton’s neck and he relishes the gentle whimper that he elicits. 

“Fuck, Hermann, please just -- I need you, I need you now.” Hermann nods and pulls himself close to his bedside table with his arms. He hasn’t used it in a long time, but he still keeps a bottle of lubricant with him, because hell, everyone needs it  _ sometimes.  _ He pops the lid off and watches Newton visibly shiver at the sound.

“Turn over for me.” He watches Newt roll over and kisses his back as he settles, dampens his fingers with lube and rubs them along his opening. Newton moans and buries his face in the sheets rumpled beneath his head, and Hermann slides a finger inside. 

“F-fuck, Hermann…” Newton writhes beneath him, pushing back against Hermann’s hand as he very carefully adds another finger, pushing it in and out, twisting and stretching him as he runs his other hand along the curve of his colorful back. “Hermann, fuck, please…” Newton shivers and clenches his fists in the blankets, and in a moment Hermann realizes that he has not had this in a long time, perhaps as long as himself? Could that possibly be true?

“You don’t have to beg.” Hermann curls his fingers inside of Newton, and he smiles when he cries out, his hips jerking forward. He drinks up the sight of Newton, the sound of his gasps and moans, the taste of him as he kisses down his back, now beaded with sweat. He consumes it as if he has starved for years; but then, hadn’t they both?

“Hermann, if you don’t fucking -- haah, get on with it…” Newton warns in a thoroughly unthreatening tone, and Hermann chuckles against the back of his neck.

“You’ll what?” He laughs, but doesn't make him wait much longer. After pulling his fingers out and wiping them clean on his discarded pajamas, he sits up against his headboard, and Newt doesn't even wait for an invitation to straddle him. 

“Ready?” Newton gazes down at him with a vulnerable expression, as if expecting Hermann to change his mind and renounce the whole thing. Hermann pulls him close, runs his hands along his thighs, his hips, savoring the feeling of him. 

“When you are.” Newton wastes no time. With one hand, he balances himself on the bed, leaning forward over Hermann. With the other, he guides Hermann's cock inside him, slowly taking inch after inch. Hermann worries that he's going too fast, but he only briefly utters a cry of pain, and then he's settled fully on Hermann's lap. The heat and pressure of Newton make Hermann shake with need, and he grasps Newton’s thighs hard.

Hermann's mind does not dull from pleasure or exhaustion; on the contrary, he spurs his mental capacities forth, committing to memory each and every moment. Even now, a part of him fears it may never return. He studies Newton above him: his lips curl into an open-mouthed smile, his brow furrows gently with concentration, his muscles twitch and contract as he lifts himself up and down on Hermann’s cock. He can feel his leg and hip beginning to complain, and he shifts Newton slightly to the right. 

“S-sorry, Herms.” Newt gasps, and Hermann shakes his head.

“It’s quite alright.” He feels the coiling flame inside his chest grow hotter as Newton picks up the pace, leaning forward to brace himself on his hands. Now, Hermann can lean up and kiss Newton, who whines into his mouth and drags him even closer to the edge. 

“H-hermann, shit, fuck--” Newt hisses. “I want -- I need more…” Hermann laughs breathlessly as Newton shivers.

“I’m afraid you have more c-control of that than I.” Hermann replies.

“J-jerk me off.” Newton commands in a gravelly voice, and Hermann finds himself more than willing to comply. He wraps his hand around Newton’s cock and strokes, watching as he rides Hermann desperately, his movements becoming jerkier and less controlled. “Fuck -- H-hermann, I can’t--”

“Then don’t.” Hermann breathes, and Newton cries out, curling in on himself and coming into Hermann’s hand. The sudden contraction around him, the blinding heat sends Hermann tumbling after him. When it’s done, they lay together in a tangle of limbs, Newton’s head resting in the crook of Hermann’s shoulder, Hermann’s arms limply encircling Newton. For what feels like an eternity they say nothing, and Hermann doesn’t mind. If this moment suspends itself in time, he thinks, so much the better.

“Hermann…” Newton finally speaks, his voice tired and hoarse. “I’m sorry…”

“So am I.” He buries his hand in Newton’s hair and gently strokes it, pushing it back from his face.

“No, really, I -- I should have--”

“That’s enough.” Hermann whispers, kissing the top of his head. “This is enough for now.”

* * *

 

When morning comes, Hermann knows that Newton has not fled; he can feel the warmth of his body beside him in the bed, can hear his deep breathing as he sleeps. He smiles and rises carefully to avoid waking him, and for a while simply watches him. He had forgotten to take off his glasses, and they sat cock-eyed on his forehead. His hair flew in all directions. A thin trail of saliva gently trickled from the corner of his mouth, dampening his pillow. Never in his life had Newton looked more perfect.

He knows that they have much to explain to each other, to apologize for. They have twelve years of bitterness and misunderstanding to untangle. He knows that all nights cannot transpire as beautifully, but for the first time, he no longer fears those inevitable storms. Right now, he feels as if nothing in this world can shake him again. 

He gathers his clothes from the floor and dresses himself, then carefully makes his way to the kitchen to make breakfast. On the way, he cancels class via email; nothing short of apocalypse could move him to leave home today. He starts the coffee pot heating, sets a pot of water to boil, and opens the curtains over the kitchen window. Outside, the rain has stopped, and birds clean themselves in puddles as the sun gently pushes itself through cracks in the cloud cover. 

Life has given Hermann Gottlieb a blessed moment of pure peace, and though he knows that it cannot last forever, he drinks it in. 

“Herms?” He hears Newt call out in a drowsy voice, and Hermann smiles. “You there?”

“Good morning, Newton.” He answers as the sun filters, warming his face. “I’m here.”

 


End file.
